


The Sea of Lies

by LaClarity (violethunter)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Lot of Research was Required for this Fic, Alternate History, British Military, British Museum, Case Fic, Conspiracy, Disguise, Established Relationship, Horror, India, London, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mystery, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violethunter/pseuds/LaClarity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A diamond believed to be the mysterious Daria-i-Noor finds its way to the British Museum. An old friend from Holmes’s Montague Street days fears a plot to steal it, leading our boys onto the trail of a veteran of the Sepoy Revolt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sea of Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tripleransom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tripleransom/gifts).



> Disclaimer – All ACD’s works are public domain in the UK, but of course we are eternally indebted to him for so diligently publishing Watson’s biographies. Political figures and companies referred to are historically accurate, but all major characters involved are completely fictional, and do not intend to reflect any real person, living or dead.
> 
> A certain pink diamond is still at large, and its true location remains a matter of debate today.

It was a cold, close, December evening, and such a yellow fog was rolling down Baker Street that I could barely see the houses opposite our window. From the gloom beneath me spectral disembodied voices called out, and the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones sounded far away, as though our little flat were floating on a cloud high above the city, rather than deep in the metropolis. I was not in practice at this time, and glad of it, for whenever a thick London particular descended on our city, death was not far behind.  
Holmes was draped over the chaise longue behind me, blanketed with newspapers. It had been one of those wonderful closing years of the century, when adventure had followed adventure, and the whole world seemed to be our plaything. That business had slowed these past few days had not affected Holmes as it once would have, and he was content to rest, advise on a few small matters from his armchair, and keep apace of his agony columns. I allowed myself a gentle smile as I watched his chest rise and fall beneath the papers. In those days I thought that we could exist together like this forever, for in the whirl of escapades that Sherlock Holmes had swept me up in, I had not the time to think of my languishing profession, or my lack of wife or heir. I do believe that was the sly old fox’s intention, but I cannot blame him for it now.

“I can feel your gaze upon me, Watson. Have you tired of the lack of a view from our greasy window?”

“I prefer the view in the sitting room.” I replied coquettishly “Although how you can tell I am staring at you with your face buried in that cushion is beyond me.”

“It is one of the greatest faults of mankind to rely overmuch upon the sense of sight. I have devoted many hours to developing the other senses, especially that of hearing. A lot can be learnt from listening to a man, when he believes himself to not be observed merely because the line of sight is obscured.” 

“Oh really?” I replied, with only the slightest tone of sarcasm in my voice, for it was one of my chief pleasures to listen to Holmes talk of his cleverness in his delicious voice “And what observations, pray, have you made of me?”

“You look at the fog, you sigh, no doubt thinking of hypoxia and asphyxiation. I agree with you, the conditions outside are fearful, and really something must be done, but what, without halting the progress of industry? I hear your jacket and waistcoat rub as you turn. Your breathing changes, you relax, and your respiration falls into rhythm with my own. You are looking at me then, and because you are a romantic fool – a writer first, but a romantic fool second - you reminisce about the wonderful year we have spent together. And before you protest being called a fool-!” and he was right, because I had opened my mouth to defend myself against the charge “I have for you a gift.”

A long thin hand extended out from beneath the newspapers, flourishing an envelope, but its owner was still buried within.

“What’s this?” I asked, getting up from my chair, and taking the envelope from him.

“What do you observe?”

“London postmark, dated this morning. Addressed to you in a man’s hand. It’s neat… he’s well educated?” The pile of newspapers gave an affirmative hum. I turned the enveloped over in my hands. “It’s good quality paper… you opened it with your knife… no, I’m quite out I’m afraid.”

“Written by a left-handed academic in his sixties, but please. Open it and read it to me, will you, dear?”

I did as directed.

“Dear Mr Holmes,” I read. “It has been many years, and yet I suspect a man of your faculties will not have forgotten your old friend Mr Jenkin Argall, who had the pleasure of assisting you with your studies at the Museum. I would not trouble you, but I have noticed something curious about one of the exhibits, and airing my concerns to my superiors has failed to result in action. I read avidly of your adventures in the Strand, and feel confident that if I were to put my problem to you, you should at least be able to advise me, if not effect a solution. To this end, I plan to call on you at Baker Street shortly after six post meridian. I remain yours etc. etc… Wonderful!” I grinned “An admirer!”

“Do you mean an admirer of my talent, or of yours?”

“Mine, naturally. It’s my writing which creates the excitement around your talent.”

“Pah!” Holmes sat up suddenly, newspapers sliding down to the floor. “I offer you a glimpse into my past, and you repay me with insults!”

I chuckled, and sat beside him on the chaise lounge, passing him back the letter.

“You know I can’t mean it. I worship the very ground you walk upon. I couldn’t possibly write without so delightful a subject. My writing is full of my adoration for you.”

“You had better hope not, or you will have to leave Baker Street to avoid arousing suspicion.”

I could see that I had genuinely annoyed him. I patted his pinstriped knee by way of an apology. It was so rare for him to speak of his younger days, and I should have known better not to tease him. I waited just a little, not sure if he were sulking, before I ventured,

“Who is Jenkin Argall?”

He huffed, and shrugged my hand off his knee.

“A librarian at the British Museum. You would not believe it now, Watson, but when I first came to town I led a very pedestrian life. Argall single-handedly saved me from the ennui which I’m sure would have consumed me had he and his delightful reading room been further than a short stroll from my bed and board. I have no need for artificial stimulants now I have such an endless supply of work, and yes you too, my sweet but cruel friend. However in those days, it was not so easy to resist the siren song of the hypodermic. Argall recognised the signs, and was very sure to keep me well-stocked with all sorts of salacious tomes. Like myself, Argall is a lover of the sensational and macabre, and it was under his tutelage that I began to build my little library of crime. We disagreed on the point of whether history is doomed to repeat itself, and that all crimes that possibly can be committed, have no doubt been committed in the past. Still, I believe the weight of evidence is on my side, given my many successful cases which have depended on the recognition of a pattern.”

“So, what do you guess he wants from you now?”

“I never-“

“Never guess, I know.”

Holmes gave me a studied look beneath his raised brow. 

“I don’t suppose you can behave, can you? I am expecting a rather treasured guest at any moment, and I shouldn’t like him to think I have fallen in with common riff raft.”

“Mr Holmes, forgive me. Pray, continue.”

“As I was saying, before rude interruption: I never guess. Therefore, I can say nothing.”

I laughed at this.

“What, nothing, nothing at all from the great Mr Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective?”

“I recall he had a particular fondness for gemstones and their robbery, and so if he were concerned about a particular exhibit… but no, I really am guessing.”

“Perhaps that is his knock now, and we shall not be kept in suspense much longer.”

It was indeed Mr Jenkin Argall downstairs, being gently assisted to our door by Mrs Hudson. As Holmes knew the man intimately, I could not doubt his assertion that Mr Argall was in his sixties, but I would have guessed his age a score of years greater. He puffed and blew his way up our steps like a man very much unused to physical exertion. Holmes leapt up upon hearing him, tossing his newspapers into the air and letting them fall where they may. He dragged a soft chair towards the door, and as Mr Argall appeared in the entrance, Holmes performed one of his smooth manoeuvres, managing to warmly shake his old friend’s hand whilst guiding him with a hand on his back to sit in the chair in one fluid movement. 

Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway a moment longer, taking in the chaotic scenery with pursed lips. I caught her eye, and slipped her a wink. She turned to leave, attempting to hide a smile. Holmes may have his gallant charm with women, but for myself I find just the barest amount of cheeky flirtation achieves far better results.  
His old friend now safely ensconced in his chair, Holmes made the usual offers of coffee or brandy, before seating himself on the edge of the chaise longue, the picture of restrained excitement. Meanwhile, poor Mr Argall focused on recovering from his exertion. I found myself regarding him more as a patient than as one of Holmes’s clients. With his pink colour, and wheezing breaths, I recognised some disease of the lungs. He leaned heavily into the arms of his chair as he attempted to regain his breath, and I knew I was looking at a sufferer of emphysema. I thought of the smog outside, and pitied the man.

“So.” He said finally “You are looking very well, dear boy.”

“I wish I could return the compliment. Are you quite recovered?”

“Ah, blunt as usual.” Argall looked at me. “He was always like this, you know. I was very happy to read of your adventures, Dr Watson. I always thought Holmes was doomed to spend all his days without a close friend.”

“How so?”

“Oh! He was such a prickly young man. Hated society. He only tolerated me as I was his librarian.”

“Humph. I believed you were come to see me for a case, not to belittle me in front of my colleague. I have had quite an unfortunate morning for teasing.”

“Hah, quite right. And I do have a case, I’m sure of it.”

Holmes fluttered his hands, encouraging Argall to begin.

“As you see, I’m getting on a bit, and my health isn’t what it was. They couldn’t retire an archivist like me, I’m irreplaceable. But I’ve been encouraged to take shorter and shorter hours, until I barely have an official post at the museum at all. They pay me some small retainer, but I’m not important anymore. These young men, they think I am just some old fuddy-duddy. So when I noticed someone had been tampering with the Daria-i-Noor no-one believed me.”  
Holmes learned forward in his chair, chin in his hands.

“Now you interest me! Watson – be a good fellow, and look up the Daria-i-Noor in my index.”

I crossed the room to the bureau, and pulled out the appropriate volume. I ran my finger down the well-thumbed page.

“The Daria-i-Noor” I read “A pale pink diamond of 182 carats from the Kollur Mine Andhra Pradesh in India. The name is Persian: the ‘Sea of Light’. Believed to be one of the largest cut diamonds in the world, and a sister stone to the famous Koh-i-Noor - Mountain of Light - of the British Crown Jewels. Both diamonds were spoils of war during the occupation of Delhi by Nader Shah of Persia in 1739. While the fate of the Koh-i-Noor is well known, the whereabouts of the Daria-i-Noor are a matter of dispute. Both Persia and the Bengal Presidency claim to have possession of the jewel. Recent reports have suggested that the stone may have come into possession of the erstwhile East India Company, who removed it from the Punjab in 1849.”

“Thank you Watson. I do believe I heard of the arrival of the stone on British soil a month ago. Or at least, some pretender to the title.”

“It has been on display to the public this week at the British Museum.” replied Argall “But you do not believe we have the true Daria-i-Noor?”

“It seems more likely to me that it never left Persia, and it is buried deep in the Golestan Palace. But it is of no matter; the stone you have carries the name and the story of the Daria-i-Noor, and as such will attract evil attention. How came it to these shores?”

“Scholars of some repute” huffed Argall, fixing Holmes with disapproving glare “believe that the stone came to the Bengal Presidency through the Company. Its exact whereabouts were quite unknown, until a gentleman called Jasper Vickery-Smith returned home to London with it in his possession. He surrendered it to the crown under conditions of amnesty, reporting that it had brought him nothing but misery.”

“What reason do you have to believe this man? I find such a story most unsatisfactory.”

“He was in the service of the Marquess of Dalhousie during the change of administration after the Government of India Act. The Viceroy himself has confirmed that Vickery-Smith disappeared at this time with several precious artefacts.”

“Why on earth did the British Raj not pursue him if he possessed such a precious gem as the Daria-i-Noor?”

“That, it seems, is a matter of governmental secrecy. But let’s not forget that the very identity of the stone is in dispute.”

“So much for its history. What concerns about the stone have coaxed you from your books to my door through this most inhospitable of fogs?”

“As you know, I love such stories of intrigue and mystery, and what could be more romantic than a beautiful pink diamond? It has been my personal passion of late to attempt to determine if the diamond we possess is the true Daria-i-Noor. After the dissolution of the Company, their papers passed not to the Public Records Office, but to our library. I have spent many a happy hour combing through endless audits, and I am no closer to an answer. But due to my little hobby I have spent much time with the stone, and I tell you yesterday it moved.”

“Moved?”

“Within its case! Moved! I know exactly how the light reflects from the facets, and it has almost certainly been moved forward.”

Holmes shrugged.

“It may have simply been removed for cleaning.”

“And yet only one man has the key, and he claims that the case has not been opened. And the nightwatch have seen no-one suspicious, and swear that there has been no break-in.”  
“Who has the key?”

“Dr Clayton Bates, the curator of the ornament and gem room.”

“When is the gallery open?”

“The same times as the rest of the museum. From ten until four Monday to Saturday.”

“Why open for so brief a period?”

“The museum has no artificial lighting. The hours are necessarily short in winter.”

“Quite so. What other staff work in the gem room?”

“Dr Bates has an intern, a James Robertson. There are the guardsmen of course, and a lady who sweeps the floor.”

“And you do not believe the stone could have been knocked during cleaning?”

“It is possible, but I would have thought it would fall. The Daria-i-Noor is a table-cut stone, and it is balanced on a cushion of velvet. If it were knocked it would certainly slide off the velvet. Besides, the room is only given a cursory sweep. The museum is only cleaned deeply three times a year, and the previous occasion was October, before the stone came to us.”  
“I see why your suspicions were raised. Whom did you alert to the possible tampering with the Daria-i-Noor?”

“Dr Bates, in the first instance. He took it personally, and was most offended. So I told the Principle Librarian, who has been very keen on my investigations into the East India Company. But he was uninterested in my fears. Yet another person who believes me a relic who should retire to the countryside.”

Argall turned away, and coughed heavily. I could not suppress the notion that the Principle Librarian had a point.

“What of your opinions of the characters of these people?”

“Dr Bates is highly respected in his field. It would be a great coup for him to show the real Daria-i-Noor. But despite that I do not believe he would be tempted to tamper with the diamond to make it appear to be something it was not. Mr Fielding, the Principle Librarian, has no motive to tamper with the stone at all.”  
“Except perhaps the motive of curiosity?” I broke in “One or the other them could have removed it from its case to examine it further, and simple been embarrassed that you noticed it had been moved. I know I am certainly keen to view this stone, and I admit I had not even heard of it before I read its entry in Holmes’s index.”

Argall shook his head.

“I cannot believe it. So little a thing could easily be explained, and the weight of my suspicion instantly removed.”

“What do you believe has happened?” Holmes asked quietly.

Argall looked down at his feet.

“I’m sure you will think me foolish, but I can’t shake the notion that someone was preliminarily studying the stone with a view to stealing it. They might have been establishing its identity for example. Before deciding whether or not it would be worth risking theft.”

Holmes leaned back in the chaise longue, tapping his forefinger against his chin.

“It’s possible.” He said at length “But such a person would have to be an expert in such matters. They would have to know the stone intimately. You mentioned scholars who believe that the stone was in the possession of the Governor of Bengal. Have any of these distinguished gentlemen visited the Museum in the past week?”  
Argall’s brow furrowed.

“To my knowledge, no. A gentleman from Garrod & Co., the crown jewellers, viewed the stone when first it arrived with us, and it will go to them when the exhibition is over.”

“Which is when?”

“At the end of the week.”

“Today is Wednesday. We have then four days in which to make our move, and the potential thieves to make theirs.” Holmes got up, and stretched his legs. “My dear Argall, it is a pleasure to see you again, and all the more so that you have brought me such an interesting case.”

“Then you agree to investigate?”

“But of course.” Holmes grinned “And I believe this one shall require a bit of leg work. We three shall take a cab to Bloomsbury.”

“But you cannot mean to take Mr Argall with you-!” I spluttered with surprise.

“Whyever not?” Argall replied angrily. “Do you imagine you will get far with your investigations without me?”

Holmes was also looking at me with some annoyance.

“The fog is always worse the closer you get to the river,” I explained “I’m only thinking of your health. Haven’t you a relative in the country you could stay with until it blows over?”

“If you couldn’t tell by my accent” Argall replied coldly “Any relations I once had were far out West. No, I will stay thank you. Nothing will tear me away from the Daria-i-Noor until I am assured of its safety.”

“Quite so.” Affirmed Holmes.

And so it was that I was sent forth into the thick London particular to hail a cab. The foetid air stung my eyes, and crept down my throat. My every instinct as a doctor screamed at me to beg Mr Argall to remain indoors, but as usual, I obeyed Holmes without question. 

 

The journey from our flat to the British Museum was thankfully a brief one. We all pressed handkerchiefs to our faces in an attempt to ward off the evil yellow smog, but they were not particularly effective. I kept a close eye on Argall lest he begin to show signs of cyanosis. Luckily, he remained a choleric pink. 

Drawing up on Great Russell Street, Holmes invited the cabbie to wait for us in the lobby, as well as to pay for his time. I couldn’t see this investigation being over quickly, but I suspect Holmes wished to give the man a break from the streets.

“Let us proceed to the gem room.” Argall huffed “It’s on the first floor I’m afraid, Holmes. No chance to look around your old haunts in the library.”

“I am more interested at present in new cases than old ones. Pray, lead on.”

Argall took us up the main staircase, into a dingy antechamber and through a narrow corridor, looping back towards the front of the museum. I have visited to view curiosities collected by the Empire on many occasions, but I could not swear to having ever made my way to this particular room before. Argall led us past a room of gold medallions, into a lighter chamber, which possessed windows along two walls, overlooking Great Russell Street below. I could see why this room had been selected to showcase the museum’s collection of precious gemstones. If it weren’t for the accursed fog pressing up against the windows, then the south-facing chamber should have been well lit. As Argall had previously said, no gas was laid on here at the museum. Holmes made a similar comment about the lighting, but then added:

“But is it not a little too out of the way for such an important find? Presumably if the identity of the Daria-i-Noor can be verified, the stone is destined to join the Crown Jewels?”

“’If’ is a strong word, Holmes. Hence why my superiors are content for me to spend my time buried in the Company’s records. But of course, there’s the usual museum politics at play. This room comes under Dr Bates’s curation. If the stone were placed in one of the main galleries, he would receive less credit if and when its identity is confirmed.” 

“As you fully expect it shall be.”

Argall shrugged.

“Perhaps it is a foolish dream. But it seems to me that Providence would not lead the wrong diamond to us. Not when the Kor-i-Noor and the Daria-i-Noor are destined to be together.”

“Come, Watson. Let us take a closer look at this little plaything.”

Holmes took my arm, and led me over to the glass case by the window. There, sitting on a deep blue velvet cushion, was a pink jewel about the size of a snuffbox. It was cut so that it glittered around the edges, but in all honesty I found it rather dull and disappointing. It could have perhaps been the lack of light in the room, but I could not believe this small pink stone could be the source of a planned heist. It looked for all the world like a polished rose quartz.

“Oh Argall! I seriously did not think you would make good on your threat to involve Sherlock Holmes.”

We turned, to see a man with short black hair and whiskers round the corner. He had bulging yellow eyes, and gave the distinct impression of being flustered and unhappy to see greet us.

“I shouldn’t have had to, Dr Bates,” Argall replied huffily “If my misgivings had been listened to.”

“I am very sorry that you have been dragged away from your fireside on such a cold morning, Mr Holmes” Dr Bates continued, ignoring Argall completely “I’m afraid this little matter is nothing more than a infatuated academic letting his imagination get the better of him.”

“I know Argall of old.” Holmes replied coldly “And if I can put his mind to rest, I shall certainly do so, and it is both my pleasure, and my own business.”

“Well, if you are only doing a favour for a friend.” Bates replied with a snide smile “Don’t let me stop you. And of course, the Daria-i-Noor is worth seeing in and of itself.”

“Then you believe this stone is the one?” I asked.

Dr Bates shrugged, and moved to join us by the case.

“It’s certainly the most likely candidate I have seen. It has been removed from its original setting sadly, which would have done much to enhance the stone’s beauty. And some idiot Persian Prince has seen fit down the ages to inscribe his name into it. Still, it is an extraordinary large pink diamond, and pink is one of the most rare colours. The hue isn’t from an impurity in the crystal, but a structural abnormality causing differed absorption and emission spectra to a brilliant white diamond. Even if it is not the Daria-i-Noor, it is a beautiful specimen, and a boon to any geologists collection.”

“Where would you place its value?”

I looked over at Holmes. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the gem. The lustre I hadn’t seen in the stone, I saw now in his grey eyes. As he stared at it in fascination, I was struck by the similarities between man and stone. Cold, hard, and highly ordered, both would cut through any opposition that came against them. But they were also beautiful, perfect, and in possession of a mysterious air, which drew all around to them. I had to buy him diamonds, I decided there and then. Quite how I was supposed to do this on my meagre pension, I knew not. I only knew it would be worth any amount to present him with something that could fascinate him with even a fraction of the hold that the Daria-i-Noor now held over him.  
“We have been in consultation with Garrod’s, who will be setting the stone if its authenticity can be proved. Even if it were not the true Daria-i-Noor, they would value it at fifteen thousand pounds.”

I gave a low whistle.

“And yet you keep it here,” Holmes said, in a dreamlike voice “In full view of the public.”

Dr Bates laughed, curtly.

“The public have barely been viewing it at all. The diamond has received very little attention. But still, we have the watchman on guard during the night, and I am around during the day. It would be very difficult for someone to gain entry to the case, which as you can see possesses a sturdy lock.”

“I presume no persons have been noticed paying a suspicious amount of attention to the jewel?”

“None at all. Unless of course, you count Argall here.”

Holmes smiled his predatory cat-like grin.

“Unless we count dear Argall. I assume you’ve no objections to me examining the scene more closely?”

Dr Bates nodded his assent, and Holmes withdrew a dissection kit from his coat. Unrolling it, he pulled out his small magnifying glass, and began to examine the lock.

“This has certainly been opened a couple of days ago. Do you know any reason why the case would have been unlocked Dr Bates?”

The man frowned, in what I thought was genuine confusion.

“No, none. You’re certain?”

“These prints look perfectly fresh. You didn’t perhaps open the case to examine the diamond after Argall raised his suspicions?”

“No… no I did not. But the key is kept in my desk, and the key for that is in my jacket at all times.”

Holmes tutted, and continued to examine the scene. It was a wonderful thing to see him on the scent. He would leap across the floor to avoid spoiling a footprint, or he would pull his long limbs into all manner of strange contusions in pursuit of some clue in the corner of the picture rail, or the underneath of a cushion. I saw Dr Bates trying to catch Argall’s eye, with the expression of a man who clearly believed he was dealing with a lunatic. Argall resolutely ignored him. I simply gave Dr Bates my sweetest smile. It would be amusing to see him taken down a peg or two.

“Hah!”

Holmes’s ejaculation brought all our attention back to where he was standing on the windowsill, bent over to fit his long frame into the opening.

“What have you found?” I asked, eagerly.

“You mean, what I have not found.” Holmes replied. “Examine this room. There is only one entrance, from that corridor opposite. I observed Dr Bates’s office on that same corridor, and it is clear from his appearance shortly after we entered the room, that from that vantage point he is able to observe all the comings-and-goings into the gem room. Is that not correct, Dr Bates?”

“Quite so.”

“And yet you have seen no-one suspicious.”

“Well. No. I have not. But I’m not sure I like the direction you are taking…”

“Secondly, the windows.” Holmes spoke on, ignoring Dr Bates. “Understandably locked down against the cold, and this truly inhospitable weather. None of them show any signs of having been opened in months, let alone having been forced. We must conclude therefore, that our potential diamond thief walked past Dr Bates’s office. Of course, they could have done it at night, if it were not for the chair.”

“The chair, Holmes?” I asked, taking delight in both the look of hope on Argall’s face, and the one of frustration on Dr Bates.

“The chair!” Holmes leaned out the window bay, pointing an accusatory finger at an old chair leaning against the wall of the room. “Despite the notice asking visitors not to sit in it, somebody has been sitting in it quite regularly. A large man, with dirty boots. Do you know such a man, Dr Bates?”

Dr Bates gave an exasperated shrug.

“It is the night-watchman, who has been on duty all this week. Stern words need to be had with this man, who has clearly sought out the most secluded spot of the museum to rest his bones. Curiously, his laziness must mean that this very room would be the most difficult to burgle in the entire museum. Finally,” Holmes leapt down out of the window suddenly, making us all jump. “Do you know how I was so easily able to deduce the movements of the night-watchman? No?” He swept down dramatically, and dragged a finger along the polished floor. It came away a smutty grey. “Traces of people’s movements need some substrate in which to be recorded. This room has not been swept in several days. Tell me Dr Bates, when did your cleaner first disappear from work?”

Dr Bates opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a fish out of water, before wheeling around on his heel and calling out:

“Robertson!”

“His intern.” Argall replied to Holmes’s cocked eyebrow.

We all traipsed down the corridor and into Dr Bates’s tiny office, where an anxious young man with dirty blonde hair was sitting at a desk, festooned with papers held down by geodes. He looked up in alarm when Dr Bates burst in.

“Yes?”

“That cleaner woman? Where is she?”

“Sunita? I gave her the week off.”

Dr Bates thumped his fist down heavily on the desk.

“What the blazes did you do that for?”

“She said she had a family matter to attend to…” Robertson looked in confusion from Dr Bates and Argall to Holmes and myself. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on lad! That small problem of someone tampering with the largest pink diamond in the world, that’s all! And you’ve gone and dismissed the culprit.”

“I… I thought we agreed…” Robertson began weakly, looking at Argall. “I thought we were sure it was nothing.”

Dr Bates looked about ready for a fresh round of bellowing, but Holmes gently placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away from the desk. He stepped forward, and gave the young man an affable smile.

“Good morning. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a private consulting detective, and I have been engaged by Mr Argall here.” Holmes held out his hand, and Robertson shook it warily. “I can assure you,” Holmes continued, with a reassuring pat to the intern’s hand before he let it go. “That you are in no trouble what-so-ever. I am quite aware that you have broken no law. But it is my belief that the situation is far more serious than you think it is, and it would save me a great deal of time if you could simply explain how the Daria-i-Noor came to be moved.”

“Robertson!” spluttered Dr Bates “What the Hell does he mean?”

Poor Robertson looked from me to Argall, seeking quarter, before collapsing over the desk, burying his head in his hands.

“It’s true,” He sobbed. “I moved the diamond. But I swear to God it was innocent!”

“In which case, why on earth hide it?” huffed Argall “Amused you making a fool out of an old man like me, did it?”

“No, no-!” protested Robertson “Sunita made me swear to tell no-one. She knew Dr Bates would be furious that I’d been showing it to her.”

“I should have known that damn woman would be at the bottom of this!” Dr Bates said, through clenched teeth. “I really am sorry that your time has been wasted in this fashion, Mr Holmes. I’m afraid my apprentice has taken rather a fancy to our Indian cleaning lady. It’s rather a pathetic affair. Argall, I told you all this was nothing-“

“If it’s all the same to you.” Holmes said quietly “I would be very interested to hear Mr Robertson’s story.”

Robertson sobbed, and wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve.

“It was Monday evening. I swear to God neither of us meant any harm, and I certainly never meant to cause Mr Argall any trouble. You went down to the library that evening, if you remember Dr Bates? Sunita came in the office to help me tidy up, and she noticed that you’d left your jacket on the hook. She begged me to take the key and unlock your desk so she could get a closer glimpse at the Daria-i-Noor.”

“You went through my pockets like a common thief?” Dr Bates asked, clearly shocked. Robertson turned away, looking thoroughly ashamed, but Holmes simply ignored Dr Bates.

“You didn’t find it odd at all that your cleaner knew where your master kept his keys?”

“Oh no.” Robertson smiled a little “Nothing escapes Sunita. She has the quickest mind, and always notices everything.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, I knew Dr Bates would likely be out of the office for a while so I thought it would do no harm. I didn’t like to do it, but Sunita, she convinced me with all sorts of pretty words, so eventually I agreed. I knew we should hear anyone coming down the corridor, so it was safe enough. I opened up the case, and took the stone out. I was careful to wear a pair of latex gloves as so not to put any smudges on the diamond. And I didn’t let Sunita touch it, so you needn’t worry about that, Dr Bates. You’d previously let me handle the Daria-i-Noor anyway sir, so I didn’t see that I was really doing anything wrong.”

“Except for rifling through my private possessions behind my back, and then lying to three senior members of staff about the fact!”

“I’m sorry.” Robertson said miserably. “I just wanted to show Sunita something pretty.”

“What did Sunita make of the diamond?” asked Holmes eagerly. “Did she pay particular attention to anything, or ask you to hold it up to the light in a certain way?”

“Not really.” Shrugged Robertson. “She was curious about the inscription on the side, and wanted to look at that closely, but other than that… to be honest I’m not sure she was that impressed by it, Mr Holmes. Afterward, I thought maybe she was testing me somehow, to see if I would favour her or Dr Bates in a test of loyalty.” The young man visibly squirmed under the weight of Dr Bates’s gaze. “I thought she would be pleased that I did as she said, but she finished her chores without another word to me. Dr Bates came back, and picked up his coat none the wiser. A while after he left, Sunita came to wish me good evening, and to ask if she may take the remainder of the week off as leave.” Robertson sighed “It was most irregular of course, and I sensed her mind was preoccupied. I asked her why she needed to go away with no notice at all. She said it was a family matter, and not to worry, that it would all be sorted out within the week. I didn’t think she had much family here in England, but I didn’t want to pry, so I told her not to worry about it. Just before she left, she begged me not to say anything about her looking at the diamond – well I wasn’t about to admit to going though Dr Bates’s desk – so I agreed.”

“You blackguard.” Dr Bates said thickly. “Do you not realise how suspicious this all sounds?”

“Sunita is a sweet and gentle person.” Robertson said angrily. “She could never do anything bad, much less steal a diamond!”

“You young fool! I should throw you out on your ear. I should have done so ages ago for cavorting about with that hussy!”

“Do what you want to me!” Robertson rose angrily “But don’t you dare say a word against her! I love her!”

“Fah!” Dr Bates turned away in disgust, but Holmes rose an eyebrow at him.

“Really Dr Bates, I don’t think you need to be throwing so much scorn about. Dear me, what has become of the academics of the day, when they cannot see such obvious lines of enquiry before them? The lady is Indian, and you did not even think to mention it?”

Robertson pounded his fist on the table.

“Just because she’s Indian, doesn’t mean she’s done anything wrong!”

Holmes just gave him a look full of sympathy.

“Be a good lad, and please be seated. I am terribly sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve been played by the oldest trick in the book. I fear it is quite likely you will never see your beloved Sunita again.”

Robertson sat down heavily.

“Surely that cannot be so…”

“What is your young lady’s full name? When did she begin working at the museum?”

“Her name is Sunita Chowdhary. She began working here only recently… two months ago? We met in the Ethnographical Rooms. She expressed an interest in our gold medals, and asked me if I could find a way to get her transferred to Ornaments. I didn’t think… I thought she liked me…”

“Had the jewel come to the museum at that stage?”

“No…”

“We were already in negotiation with the Crown.” Dr Bates said seriously, arms folded. “Presumably whatever gang is behind this knew it, and so employed her to manipulate her way into the building beforehand.”

“A reasonable enough theory.” Holmes said dismissively “But potential jewel thieves usually do not leave without their quarry. Miss Chowdhary must have known Robertson would begin to miss her once the week was up, and that her actions would have raised suspicions.” He cocked an eyebrow at Dr Bates “Or at least, they should have done so.”

“She was just the cleaner! How was I to know?”

“She was never just the cleaner.” Robertson said sadly. “If you’d ever spoken to her, you would have known that.”

My heart went out to this young man. He was not the first to do something foolish after falling for a beautiful woman, and he wouldn’t be the last. It would ever be innocent characters like his that would have the advantage taken of them. That he seemed more distressed that he would never see Sunita Chowdhary again, rather than his possible involvement in a scandalous crime, spoke to his naïve love for her. I looked over at Holmes, and saw the regret in his eyes that others might have missed. As well he may have called it ‘the oldest trick in the book’; it was one he had played himself, when he wanted to gain entry to the household of Charles Augustus Milverton.

“Please, Mr Roberston. What did Miss Chowdhary tell you of her background?”

“Precious little.” Robertson replied, shaking his head “She grew up in West Bengal. From some of things she said I gathered she was of a high caste… but some misfortune had caused her family to fall from grace. She was well educated as a girl, and with the remains of her family’s fortune which came to her, she decided to board a ship for England, to seek better opportunities here. I always thought it was criminal that one such as she would end up sweeping floors… but I see now it was only a means to an end.”

“Do you know whereabouts in the metropolis Miss Chowdhary lives?”

“She never said. I assumed in the East End, but I no doubt was as wrong about that as I was about everything else.” He buried his head in his hands. “I thought her a delicate creature fallen on hard times. I thought I could save her from a life of servitude…”

“One final question, Mr Robertson, and then we will leave you in peace. Did Miss Chowdhary ever mention any dealings with the East India Company to you?”

Robertson looked up, confused.

“No. Why should she? They have been defunct these past forty years… and she can be but thirty.”

“She never mentioned a Jasper Vickery-Smith to you?”

“The scoundrel who donated the Daria-i-Noor? Why on earth should she? Do you think she knows him?”

Holmes stood to leave.

“Mr Robertson, when two individuals and one extremely precious stone all travel half-way round the globe from the same subcontinent of India, to one small corner of our city, I consider it a truly remarkable co-incidence. And I do not like co-incidences. Dr Bates, I would beg you to not be too harsh on the boy, but I see it will be of no use. I bid you both good day.”

 

We collected our cabbie, and headed back out into the thick London streets. The sun must have past its zenith by this point, but the sky seemed far darker than the hour warranted. 

“So, Holmes.” Puffed Argall, lighting a gasper, “You see my observational skills aren’t far behind your own. Somebody had moved that diamond.”

“I never doubted you for a moment, old fellow. But now we must plan our next move. How much do you know about this Vickery-Smith?”

“Not a great deal. You suspect he is in league with this Sunita? If that is her real name.”

“The two of them are certainly involved in some manner. Whether or not they are collaborators or adversaries remains to be seen.”

“She might be someone who knew him in India, and wishes to steal the diamond, you mean?” I asked “Well, that speaks quite highly of the likely authenticity of the stone.”

“Hmm.” Argall turned and rummaged in a satchel. “I am sure I have Vickey-Smith’s address. Yes, here it is.” 

He passed a private address in Mayfair up to the cabbie. 

“I wonder if we’ll find her there,” I said absently, as Holmes tapped on the roof of the cab with his cane. “A very different locale to where he imagined her to live.”

“I’ve no doubt we’ll discover his diamond in the rough to be rather a high class customer indeed. Good grief, but this fog is thick.”

We peered out of the windows, trying to determine where we were. The journey should have not have taken more than fifteen minutes, but we rode along in silence for some time. The drivers had all lit lamps, but we were still forced to go at a snail’s pace due to the abysmal visibility. It could have been my imagination, but it seemed the air was becoming more acrid and poisonous with every breath. Argall went from struggling to breathe, to coughing, and could not cease. I shot Holmes a worried look, and bent to loosen Argall’s collar and tie.

“He’s awfully pale.”

Argall tried to swat me away, wheezing awfully, and mumbling something I couldn’t understand. 

“Cabbie!” Holmes called out of the window “How close to Hay’s Mews are we?”

I didn’t hear the reply, but Holmes sat back down again, shaking his head.

“This is no good. We’ll have to walk.”

“Walk? Holmes, this man is choking!”

I caught for a moment a look of impatience on Holmes’s face, which made me furious with him, and I turned away from the man to my patient.

“Mr Argall? Could you please hold your hands out vertically in front of you? As though you were pushing away a wall.”

It was with some difficulty that I made Argall understand my request, but eventually when he did so, I saw with dismay the tremor in his hands which indicated hypercapnea. I fumbled around my neck for my stethoscope, and cursed. Of course it was back in Baker Street. I groped for his wrist instead, feeling the full and bounding pulse there. It wasn’t as though I needed my stethoscope to hear the wheezing of his breath anyway.

“Holmes. This man needs urgent medical attention.”

Holmes moved beside me, picking up Argall’s hand, and patting it, as though he thought he could rouse him. He seemed to have grasped the gravity of the situation as last. He shot me a quick worried look, face pale.

“Cabbie, take us to St Thomas’s instead. No! Why have you stopped?”

Our driver appeared, opening the door.

“No can do governor. Can’t drive in this pea souper. What’s the matter with him then?”

“Stop gawking,” I snapped “And help me carry him out. Not that the air out here is ‘fresh’, but it must be better than being cooped up in this carriage.”

Together the driver and I laid Argall out on the pavement, Holmes donating his coat for a pillow. By this time Argall had stopped mumbling, and had fallen unconscious. I wiped at the sweat on his forehead with my handkerchief, knowing that given the bitterly cold December weather, it was a bad indication indeed.

Holmes crouched down beside me, looking helpless.

“I shouldn’t have let him come with us.” He said, with horror.

“Well, it’s too late for that now.” I hurled back “For pity’s sake, go find out if one of these houses won’t let us in. Somebody must have some smelling salts…” I broke off, coughing, and blinked my eyes, finding them stinging and watering. “This isn’t just smog. This is smoke. Something’s on fire.”

“There’s an orange glow up the street.” Holmes said quietly. “Right in the direction we were headed. I imagine they’ve given the call of fire, but the sound can’t travel through this impenetrable fog.”

I swore under my breath.

“I’m losing him, Holmes. I’m losing him.”

That seemed to spur Holmes into action. He leapt up and started calling for aid, but hearing him, others began to take up the call of fire, and we found ourselves in the midst of a rising panic. People began to pour out of houses, shouting in confusion, unable to locate the source of the flames in the thick smoke. 

“No please! Go back inside! The fire is a street away…” I heard Holmes pleading with them. Slowly but surely the man beneath me began to fade away. One of Holmes’s oldest acquaintances was dying in my care. I couldn’t quite grasp the horror of the situation. I thought to breathe for him, but trying to fill my lungs just caused me to choke myself. I was helpless. I could do nothing. 

“Is he…?”

Holmes was back at my side, looking down at me with an expression of helplessness and horror that I did not usually see on him. I didn’t answer him. The man investigated murders for a living; he knew death when he saw it. Instead I simply reached up, and interlocked my fingers with his. Holmes collapsed down beside me, burying his face in my collar. I closed Argall’s eyes. I hadn’t felt such loss for a patient since my beloved Mary had passed away. I held Holmes tightly, thankful at least this time it was not my spouse cooling on the pavement.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

We both looked up in sudden surprise at the familiar but out of place voice. Yet who should we see looming out of the fog with a rag pressed against his mouth, but Mycroft Holmes?

“My boy, what has happened? Who is this?”

“Jenkin Argall. My client. My friend. He has suffocated. Mycroft, why are you here?”

“On the same bad business as you are, if that is the Jenkin Argall of the British Museum. Captain Vickery-Smith’s house has been razed to the ground. I was due to meet with him, and it seems I have had a very lucky escape in being late due to this terrible fog. But my dear lad, you are terribly distressed. Please, allow me to do the necessaries with the coroners. Let your friend take you home.”

“Mr Holmes.” I interrupted “Are you sure you are alright? Were you near the flames? You may have inhaled smoke.”

“Do not fear for me, doctor. Take my brother home.”

Mycroft fixed me with such a stern look then, that I nodded meekly, and helped Holmes to his feet. Holmes had always said that Mycroft was the more intelligent of the two brothers. With Mycroft’s powers of deduction, I could not dare to hope that he thought that all between his brother and myself was platonic. He was usually content to let things be. Now his gaze spoke of a fraternal menace that if I did not look after Holmes not only in this instance, but all others, it would be worse for me.

I wound Holmes’ arm around my neck, and began a long, slow walk back to Baker Street.

 

“Wake up Watson. Brother Mycroft is in the sitting room. He wants to brief us on this affair.”

I groaned and opened my eyes, to see Holmes standing over me, fully dressed. 

“What time is it?”

“Half seven. Get up.”

It was not an hour at which I was used to arising, not with my bachelor lifestyle. I pushed myself up in bed, blinking in the light of the lamp, for it was still dark outside. 

“Isn’t your brother going to find it queer that I was sleeping in your room?”

The question hung in the awkwardly in air for the moment, before Holmes turned away to fiddle with a bottle of aftershave on his dresser. Last night he had worried me so, sinking into a brown study, and not speaking a word to me the entire walk home. When we got back to Baker Street I had undressed him as best I could, and tucked him into bed. After a moment’s thought, I had slipped into a nightshirt, and climbed in beside him. We didn’t often share quarters, for two reasons. The first reason was of a practical nature; the beds at Baker Street were simply far too small. My back was protesting greatly at the night I had spent cooped up with Holmes and his tall stature. But secondly, and most importantly, neither of us seemed capable of articulating exactly what our relationship was, and whether or not it included the intimacy of the bedroom. More than friends, but less than lovers, it was a partnership built on shared danger, goading flirtation, and a strong, but rarely articulated regard. I could count on one hand the number of times I had had the exquisite pleasure of kissing Sherlock Holmes. Coward that I was, I had to be content with waiting for him to breach any physical boundaries between us.

Last night however, he had seemed so inconsolable, that I had judged it for the best to remain with him. Not that I had been able to comfort him much, and it did not seem his mood had changed with the fresh day. I could not blame him. Yesterday, he had playfully invited me to meet a character from his past. Today, that man was dead.

“I doubt it will shock Mycroft much.” he replied finally. “Mrs Hudson, however, may have a very different reaction. I suggest you rise before she brings us breakfast.”

He left, without giving me a second look. I dragged myself out of bed, and up to my own room. I wondered how long he was going to punish me for seeing his usually carefully hidden emotions exposed. I felt an odd selfish anger at the unfortunate Argall, who seemed to have come between us, just as we had been growing closer than ever. 

Still, despite my misgivings, and protestations at the hour, I was eager to discover how Mycroft was involved in the business of the Daria-i-Noor, and I was fully washed and dressed before Mrs Hudson appeared in the sitting room with a plate of kippers. Holmes, to my regret, resolutely ignored the food, and smoked his filthy clay pipe packed with the previous night’s dottle. Mycroft and I however, tucked in with gusto.

“I must admit,” I said, attempting to break the awkward atmosphere “I am surprised to see you here at Baker Street so early in the morning, Mr Holmes. This must be a serious case indeed.”

“Any case that leads my brother into the path of danger is serious.” Mycroft scowled back over a forkful of food. “Unfortunately, he seems to be quite proficient at getting himself into trouble.”

Holmes scoffed at this, and let out a great billowing cloud of smoke.

“Stop stalling, brother mine. What were you doing in Mayfair last night?”

“Precisely what you were doing, I imagine. Calling upon our mutual friend, Captain Vickery-Smith.”

“Captain?” I queried.

“Late of the Honourable East India Company’s 66th Bengal Native Infantry. He disappeared in 1857 during the Sepoy Revolt. Several objects that were in the care of the former Governor-General disappeared along with him. Included in the inventory was the diamond on display at the museum, that we had Mr Argall researching-“

“Argall was in your employ?” Holmes cut in.

“Yes.” replied Mycroft, sounding annoyed. “He did not know it, of course. But the diamond is really of no consequence. Of far more importance were several documents that we believe were in Captain Vickery-Smith’s possession. I cannot of course reveal the contents of these documents, but let it suffice to say that British rule in India would be on shaky ground indeed if they were to come to light.”

“Then let us hope that these documents perished in the fire last night.”

“Captain Vickery-Smith is no more. But of the papers, we know not. The conflagration was certainly no accident. Therefore we cannot afford to assume that the documents have not been stolen. So much for my side of the story. I would be grateful if you could explain the circumstances which led to the unfortunate demise of Mr Jenkin Argall.”

Holmes roughly sketched out our dealings with Argall, the suspected plots against the Daria-i-Noor, and the distrustful behaviour of Sunita Chowdhary. Mycroft listened carefully, and then when Holmes was done, leant back in his chair in silence to consider this new information.

“And you do not believe the diamond was ever really under any threat?” he said at last.

“I find it curious that Miss Chowdhary did not take the stone when the opportunity presented itself. She strikes me as a singularly difficult character, and would have easily been able to subdue Robertson, had she so desired. Therefore, I do not believe the Daria-i-Noor was her true target.”

“Hmm.” Ruminated Mycroft. “The government still does not know for what reason Captain Vickery-Smith returned to England. We suspect of course, that India became too hot for him to handle. Perhaps some associates of this Miss Chowdhary were pursuing him, in an attempt to steal the papers.”

“Perhaps.” Holmes said, in a dangerous voice. “I would rather like to ask her.”

“Hah! I can hear the hidden request in that. I’ve never before heard of her, dear boy.”

“I somehow doubt it will be difficult for you to obtain a certificate of alien arrival.”

During our recent adventure concerning the Bruce Partington plans, Holmes had explained to me that his brother was, to all intents and purposes, the British government. Still, the ease at which Mycroft was able to acquire information always surprised me. When I put my mind to it, I supposed it also should disturb me how readily he would supply this information to his brother. Holmes had never mentioned being retained by the Crown, but when I considered some of his former cases, it was worryingly likely. 

“Fine. As long as you have not been supplied with a false alias, I should be able to provide you with an address et cetera.”

“Time will be of the essence.” Holmes replied. “If indeed the documents were her goal, she will either pass them on, or attempt to leave the country as soon as possible.”  
“I suggest two tacks, then. I will chase the immigration records. You must discover if any steamers are due to leave for India.”

“Can you not stop any departures?” I asked.

“Even I cannot stop the cogs of industry, Dr Watson. Besides, it is entirely possible Miss Chowdhary and her employers are completely unaware that we are on their tail. Far better not to alert them to the trap.” Mycroft Holmes heaved himself to his feet. “How shall I reach you Sherlock? I assume you will not be remaining at Baker Street?”

“The Isle of Dogs seems the most appropriate place to begin our search. I will call at the Canary Wharf Post Office. A telegram may reach me there.”

“Very well. Good hunting, then.” Mycroft tipped his hat to me. “Good morning Dr Watson.”

“There.” Holmes said, after his brother had departed. He was still unable to meet my eyes. “Did I not say that he would not be disturbed by you emerging from my room?”

“I’m not entirely sure that puts my mind to rest.” I began, but Holmes ignored me, jumping up and clapping his hands together.

“Right. Now to avenge dear Argall. Action is what is required to pull me from this slump. How do you feel to a little disguise?”

I have known Holmes, for better or worse, for fourteen years. He may have been a highly skilled dissembler, but I knew when he was faking enthusiasm. Still, if this was what he needed to cope with the death of his old associate, I was prepared to play along.

“Dock worker?”

“Precisely so.”

It took little more than half an hour for Holmes to get us up in the costume of two dockers. Holmes decreed travelling by cab would be too out of place for gentleman of our standing, and so he dragged me down to the underground station. The smog of yesterday had not yet cleared, and so I thought it useless to protest. Under normal circumstances, I would not usually consider descending into the smoke belly of our metropolis, but the air below was not any more filthy than above. Besides, the costume Holmes had provided me with - a thick black woollen jacket and a flat cap – were already soiled, and there was little enough chance that I could become much dirtier. 

Round the inner circle line Holmes took us, before we ascended, and caught the London and Blackwell Railway to Poplar. I have often remarked on Holmes’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the surface of London, but it appeared this knowledge extended to our city’s bowels as well. Quite when he had found the time to commit the maze of tunnels and junctions which comprised the underground railway to memory, I did not know. He was equally at home on the docklands railway, which rumbled above East London on red brick arches. He even exchanged words with our fellow passengers, talking a shared language of the docks that I couldn’t follow. When finally we disembarked, he took hold of my sleeve, and pulled me into a dank alleyway to speak in private.

“What have you been able to discover?”

“Very little.” He replied “Certainly they have seen no-one answering Miss Chowdhary’s description, but as the docks are no place for a woman, it is hardly surprising. But neither have they seen any suspicious gentleman of an Indian persuasion.”

“And what of ships leaving for India?”

“As I’m sure you are aware, there are several different routes East. The gang may have chosen to travel by train through France or Italy, and thenceforth a steamer to Egypt. If that is their intention, then our search shall be in vain. We must trust that brother Mycroft will have those exits from the country covered. From the docklands then, two options present themselves. The arduous journey around the Cape of Good Hope, or the far quicker jaunt to Port Said, the Suez, and then Aden.”

“Surely they must have taken the latter?”

“The former presents certain advantages; they should be far harder to track or pursue. But I believe you are correct. One does not steal precious documents, only to forestall the hoped for mutiny for months. The journey via the Suez is only four weeks. Besides, there is a British-India SN Co steamer leaving for Calcutta, this very afternoon. I have managed to secure some casual work for us loading the post onto the SS Scindia.”

“Oh, how wonderful.”

Holmes ignored my sarcasm.

“It departs, appropriately enough, from the East India dock. It is only a short distance from here. We should hurry, before we are missed.”

With that, Holmes buried his hands in his pockets, and hurried head-down, back into the bustling streets. I trotted furiously after him, trying not to look out of place – a difficult task. The docklands are not an area I am familiar with, and they were terrifying to one who is more accustomed to the wide streets and parks of central London. We were not far from the outskirts of our city here, from the marshes of Woolwich, and yet it felt we were in the very heart of London’s industrial landscape. The Isle of Dogs could have been more correctly named the Isles of Docks. The river wound around us, but the land was punctuated by man-made pits of water and the canals that ran between them. Cranes towered above us, lost in the fog, loading their respective ships up with coal. The quaysides were full of men jostling together with horses, stacks of cargo piled up high and blocking the thoroughfare. I fought off the temptation to grab hold of Holmes’s jacket, lest I lose him. He easily made his way through the confusing maze, to the East India dock, where he caught the eye of a man who waved us towards a pile of crates that had recently been unceremoniously dumped next to the wharf. 

For the next few hours I worked harder than I have ever worked since my retirement from the army. Despite the freezing cold of the December morning, it was not long before I had worked up a sweat. My hands, unused to such work, were both numb from the cold, and bleeding from the coarse grain of the boxes. I have never had so many splinters. Both my shoulder and leg ached, and I could not help but feel pity for the working classes for whom this was all in a day’s work. I determined to speak with no-one, lest I give us away, but Holmes happily joked and laughed with his fellow dockers, all in a cockney accent that was impossible to tell from a native of the East End’s. All morning we toiled, transporting the cargo from the quayside to the depths of the steamer, where it was artfully arranged by weight by the sailors. I saw Holmes attempt to strike up conversation with the seamen, but was rebuffed as a landlubber. He caught my eye, and I saw the frustration there. It was maddening to think that the very boxes we were hauling might contain the documents we were so desperate to find. By one we clocked off, and retreated inland, no closer to our quarry than we were that morning.

“Did you discover anything?” I asked, as Holmes ducked into an alley, and lit a cigarette. He shook his vesta out angrily, and glared at me, telling me all I needed to know. “When does the steamer depart?” I asked, weakly.

“She sets sail at four p.m.” Holmes replied bitterly. “And short of checking all passports as the passengers board, I fail to see how we are to catch these villains.” 

He gave a shout of frustration, and kicked out at some horse mess on the road, sending the frozen dung flying. Such an action was so out of character for him, that I wasn’t sure if I should step back, or hold him. Holmes was the master at burying his emotions while a case was hot, but the scent had now cooled.

“Holmes.” I said quietly “You are drawing attention to us.”

“What does it matter? All is finished. Argall lies in a hospital morgue, and we’ve no hope of revenging him.”

“No, but we may still retain some hope of recovering these documents. I am sure you read at school, as I did, of the Great Mutiny in India. We may yet prevent some similar tragedy.”  
“How am I to protect an entire country, when I lead my oldest friends to their deaths?” 

“Holmes, you did not kill Argall!”

He gestured angrily at me with the cigarette.

“You told him to leave town! You specifically mentioned it would be hazardous for him to approach the river. I deduced your morbid thoughts in that direction before Argall even knocked upon our door.”

“True, he was suffering from emphysema. True, the smog was giving him trouble. But it was the fire that did him in Holmes, something neither of us could predict.”  
I put my hand to his shoulder, in an attempt to comfort him, but he pushed me roughly away. Was it only yesterday that I was reflecting that times were now easy, and Holmes did not sink into his evil moods anymore?

“Holmes. Please. Don’t do this now. Mycroft is relying on you.”

“Perhaps my dearest brother should find a less idiotic man to help him with his affairs of state in future.” He kicked out at the paving stones again, before wheeling around to lean against the wall of the alley, face buried beneath an arm. I looked at him hopelessly, not sure at all what to do. My hand hovered above his shoulder, afraid to touch him again.  
“I am not entirely ignorant of medical science, Doctor.” Holmes said finally. “I could deduce Argall’s illness as plainly as you could. But I chose to ignore it. In favour of an adventure. It is unforgivable.”

“A case of international import…”

“A rock!” he shouted back “That moved!”

“Holmes… please…”

“And what of you, Watson? What pretty bauble will I sell you for? How long until I get you stabbed in a back alley? When will Lestrade come calling to tell me it is your body that has washed up in the Thames?”

“I don’t follow you around blindly, Holmes.” I snapped back “I choose to come with you, knowing the risks. So did Argall. It would be nice if your arrogance could afford me a little of my own agency for once.”

He turned to give me a furious look, anger that masked the hurt underneath. My heart melted, and I instantly regretted my words. I glanced around us quickly, to ensure we were alone, before bringing him into an awkward embrace.

“I’m sorry.” I said brokenly into his ear. “You’ve every right to grieve.”

He pulled away, and passed a hand in front of his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No. You are right. I cannot afford the luxury of breaking down, not when all is still to play for.” He drew in deeply on his cigarette, before passing it to me. He brushed the brick dust off his jacket, and then with a nervous smile, straightened my cap.

“Are you armed? Now the image of you hurt has occurred to me, I cannot shake it.”

“Don’t worry about me.” I said, touched by the concern he did not usually show. “I’m a little more robust than a librarian. And yes, I have my old Beaumont-Adams revolver.”  
He retrieved his cigarette, took one last drag, and then crushed it underfoot. He looked at me carefully, touched my face, my moustache, my lips.  
“Try to not to die.” He said shakily. “I am too fond of you.”

He was so rarely physically affectionate, and even more rarely open about his feelings for me. I felt for a second a frisson of excitement, which was quickly overwashed with guilt. How could I think about our odd romantic entanglement, when he was heartbroken over the death of a friend?

“Holmes… buck up old thing. We’ve been in plenty a dangerous situations before. Somehow we’ve managed to survive them all so far. And… I am also extremely fond of you. I’ve no desire to shuffle off this mortal coil if it means leaving you.”

Holmes smiled sadly, and linked arms with me. 

“Then let’s away to Canary Wharf PO. We must hope that Mycroft’s investigations have fared better than our own.”

 

We were in luck. The lad behind the desk handed Holmes an envelope in response to the pseudonym ‘John Verner’. The borrowing of my name amused me, but Holmes was far too involved in ripping open the missive to be embarrassed about it. He read it quickly, and then turned the telegram with its pasted message towards me.

**PRINCESS AT BRUNSWICK HOTEL STOP PROCEED ALL DUE CAUTION WILL REQUIRE DOCTOR STOP TIME OF ESSENCE STOP M STOP**

“What on earth does it mean?” I blinked “Who is ill? I didn’t bring my bag, not dressed like this…”

“No-one is ill.” Holmes replied, leading me out into the street. “Mycroft has this amusing little idea that you are my personal bodyguard. No doubt he believes this woman is dangerous. We may yet be glad of your revolver.”

“Princess?”

“The Punjabi for Princess is 'Kaur', and it is the name given to all female Sikhs to indicate their equality to men. Chowdhary is evidentially a pseudonym.”

“And the Brunswick Hotel, is that also code?”

Holmes laughed.

“No, that’s a rather fancy hotel back at the quayside. I can only imagine she means to board within the hour. Feel up to a run?”

We both broke into a sprint, any attempt at maintaining our disguise as dockers left behind us. Men swore and leaped out the way, as we attempted to weave between the figures that loomed all too quickly out of the fog. Too often we weren’t successful, and I had to leave my cap behind after colliding with one gentleman, who shook his fist at me as I started off again after Holmes. The smoky air burned my lungs, and I was glad when Holmes ducked around another corner, and halted, putting an arm out to stop me. He peered around the wall, checking the coast was clear. He turned to me, artfully rearranged my hair into something a bit more respectful, and divested himself of his dirty coat.  
“We work for the British-India steamer Co, understood?”

I opened my mouth to question further, but he was already striding out onto the wharf. I felt the reassuring weight of my service revolver, and then followed him into danger, as always I would.

“Good afternoon” Holmes was saying to the receptionist “We’ve been sent from the steward of the Scindia to collect Miss Sunita Kaur. There’s some confusion over her luggage, which she intends for her cabin, and which for the baggage room…”

“Room seven.” Cut off the concierge, with a bored tone. “Top of the stairs, turn right.”

Holmes bobbed a little bow, and beckoned me to follow him. We mounted the stairs, and stopped outside room seven. The corridor was empty, and Holmes gave me a look heavy with meaning. I drew out my pistol, cocked it, and concealed it with my jacket over one arm. I gave Holmes a nod, and he knocked on the door. A lady’s voice bid us enter.

I am not sure what I was expecting. Given the gravity of the crimes, tampering with the Daria-i-Noor, the murder of Captain Vickery-Smith, and the abduction of state documents, I had imagined the room to be bristling with brigands. Instead, one beautiful Indian lady faced us. She was dressed not in a sari, but a European travelling costume of tweed, beside her a valise. One glance at her beautiful noble face told me instantly why Robertson had fallen for her, and I realised she must be a master of disguise herself to have made people believe she was a lowly servant. In one perfectly manicured hand, she held a Webley Bulldog, pointing unerringly at myself.

“Come in and lock the door behind you.”

Her voice was low, dangerous, and thick with the accent of her country. I dropped my jacket to reveal I too had a revolver, but her gaze did not falter. Holmes closed the door behind us in silence. 

“Let me tell you now.” she said “If you are come as friends of that beast Vickery-Smith, I will have no qualms about shooting you dead like the dogs you are.”

“The Captain is dead.” Holmes said carefully “And neither of us will mourn him much. May we assume by your hand?”

“By my hand, by my sister’s hand, by the hand of fate itself.”

Holmes and I shared a look. There was clearly more to this case than either of us had expected.

“Madam.” Holmes said, in his most charming voice. “May I entreat you to lower your pistol?”

“You may not.” She shot back, voice cold. “And I must warn you gentlemen that you are in my way. People in my way do not usually remain so for long.”

I decided then to take a gamble. Slowly I held up my gun to show my finger was no longer on the trigger, placed it on the floor, and kicked it gently towards her. I could feel Holmes’ anger at my actions beside me like a palpable thing, but I could not see that a Mexican stand-off would get us very far. The time she had remaining to board the steamer would simply run out, and then she would shoot me. If she was quick enough, she would shoot Holmes as well, although I think I can flatter him with enough speed and strength to overcome one woman. Still, I have been shot once before, and I’ve no real desire to repeat the experience. Far better then, to attempt to defuse the situation.

Without shifting her aim, Miss Kaur flicked her eyes down to my revolver, and back up again.

“A Mark II Adams. You have seen service. Did you fight in Bengal? Answer me honestly, for if you lie, I shall not hesitate to put a bullet through your skull.”

“I have been to India, madam.” I said gently. “But I saw action not there, but in Afghanistan. As a non-combatant – I am a medic.”

Sunita Kaur looked at me carefully.

“You are telling the truth.” She decided. “And you have nothing what-so-ever to do with the Gurkhas?”

“I have not had that honour.”

I had meant to placate her, but I saw a flash of anger in her eyes and knew that somewhere I had taken a misstep. 

“Madam,” Holmes begun “I feel we are off on a wrong foot. My name is Sherlock Holmes, I am a private consulting detective. This is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson. We were engaged by Jenkin Argall to investigate his suspicious concerning the Daria-i-Noor diamond.”

“I could have saved you the trouble.” She said with the curve of a smile to her mouth “It is not in this country.”

“You know Mr Argall, from your subterfuge at the museum?”

“Yes.” She replied, impatiently.

“Then it may disturb you to learn that he is dead.”

“Dead! How?”

“He died of asphyxiation, from the smoke at Vickery-Smith’s lodgings.”

I saw a multitude of emotions flash across her face. Shock, horror, grief, and guilt passed in turn, but then a dangerous cool reserve gained control of her features.

“I am sad to hear it. It is very unfortunate that he chose to meddle with affairs that did not concern him.”

“The Daria-i-Noor concerned him very much. Tell me Miss Kaur, what did you see in the diamond which proved to you it was not the one you were looking for?”

She laughed haughtily.

“Oh, you white men, and your arrogance! It may not have been the stone you were looking for, but it was very much the one I wanted.”

“How so?”

“The engraving. I recognised it as the false one that Vickery-Smith had procured when he wished to trick people into believing he had the Daria-i-Noor. By this method I could confirm I was on his scent. But how I weary of this conversation! Gentlemen, if you would step aside, I have a steamer to catch.”

Holmes drew himself up to his full height. At six foot four he towers above most men, myself included. To the petite lady before us he must have appeared a giant. He can be very imposing when he wants to be, all angles and bones, sinew and muscle, with grey eyes that could cut like knives. I have never had the misfortune to be on the wrong side of that glare, not even when I have truly hurt him. I was glad I was not on the wrong side of it now. It is no slight to Sunita Kaur that she checked herself a little under that heavy gaze. 

“Madam.” And where his voice and been polite before, it was now dripping with threat. “A mere matter of circumstance was all that allowed me to detect your crime. I shall credit you then with the intelligence to realise that one cannot shoot two men in a high-class hotel in broad daylight, and imagine to escape.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Killing Vickery-Smith was no crime.”

“Then since your only exit lies through me, I suggest you convince me of that fact. Whether you wished it or not, Argall lies dead at your hands. I cannot forgive this.”

She looked down, but did not lower her gun.

“You must believe me, Mr Holmes, I did not want that. Mr Argall never gave me any reason to dislike him. It pains me to hear of his passing. But you know as well as I that he had been ill for months.”

“That shall be for the jury to decide.”

“You mean to turn me in, then?” she laughed haughtily. “Let me tell you of the crime of which I am guilty! I have rid this world of a venomous snake who poisoned all he sunk his fangs into. I am the mongoose that lives beneath your house, Mr Holmes. The women of this world may rest easy now this viper has been dispatched!”

“An admirable defence. But perhaps you do not know the laws of this country as well as you ought. There is no crime passionnel in English law, Miss Kaur. Then there is the small matter of the stolen papers that may undo any motive you present.”

“Papers, faugh! What care I for those? My sister has been avenged, Mr Holmes, and I swear to you that was all the reason I ever came to England. Now I have completed my mission, I shall do you the favour of removing my presence from your precious country, since you find it so very distasteful.”

“Perhaps,” I put in gently. “We could allow Miss Kaur to explain what this man has done to her family to necessitate putting him to death?” 

Both Holmes and the lady favoured me with angry looks. Clearly they were not expecting me to break in on their duel of words. Holmes’s look seemed to say: “Not now, I’m working”, whereas Miss Kaur looked annoyed for entirely another reason.

“Dr Watson, wasn’t it? I know your type. Blue-eyed and charming; you imagine you can talk a woman into anything. Vickery-Smith was one such as you. When he met my sister, all those years ago, he could talk of nothing but beauty and riches. After the wedding, he moved us into his palatial bungalow, where we were dogged by white-clothed servants who tended to our every need. Picnics, crochet, high-tea, all the trappings of the memsahib. And let me tell you now, Dr Watson, it was a trap. From the day she entered that contract of marriage we were shunned by all.”

Holmes looked about to speak, mayhap to defend my honour. I held up a hand for silence. He had often maintained that the fairer sex were my department. I hoped he would stand by that now.

“What happened?” I asked, simply.

“You say you have been to India. Then you know how strict our caste system is. You may also know that the British women there believe themselves the very last bastion of the Empire. What room is there for two Sikh girls in that society, especially one who has been so depraved as to drag down an Englishman to her level? But no. That is not the reason I killed Vickery-Smith. If I love a man, I will gladly tie myself to him without further thought to race or creed! But I give myself credit that I would not choose a pig like Vickery-Smith. Dr Watson, he had my beloved sister - my only friend - burned alive. Now I have done the same for him.”

“But why would any man do such a thing?” I said, horrified.

“You have heard of satipratha? I pray you have not. It is an ancient Hindu rite, where the loving widow who cannot live without her husband throws herself on his funeral pyre. It is backward practice that has no place in the modern world. You can be certain my sister entertained no romantic fantasies about such a ritual.”

“But her husband… he died by your hand, not in India.”

“No indeed. That filthy dog had her burned upon the grave of another Englishman. A Lieutenant Hill, of the 1st Gurkha Rifles, which was my brother in law’s regiment during the mutiny. Much has been written of those battles, of sepoy murdering sepoy, of the bodies of women and children piled high in the streets… what the history books do not tell us, and what my sister learnt to her peril, is that some Company officers also slew each other in their machinations to control Bengal. This Vickery-Smith was such a one. Lieutenant Hill was a young gentleman of a more honourable persuasion. He was not yet born during the mutiny, but he discovered the evidence of my brother-in-law’s evil doing.”

With a shiver of excitement, I saw her gesture unconsciously to her valise. The papers were in there, I realised with hope, not aboard the ship. It was all I could do to keep from glancing at Holmes.

“When he realised Hill had evidence against him, he made his move to discredit him. He accused my sister of adultery with him – a ridiculous ploy that a child could see through. When he saw that the mud wouldn’t stick, he arranged for Lieutenant Hill to have some little hunting ‘accident’. The young fool was in love with India and her customs, and the pyre was in his will. Vickery-Smith drugged my sister, and paid a servant to ensure she threw herself into the flames. Any idiot should see it for the plot it was, but the officers could not tell one Indian custom from another, and cared not a whit that my sister was not Hindu.”

“I can assure you, the one ‘mercy’ he showed my sister, I repaid to him. When I had seen his false diamond, and knew I was chasing the man himself, rather than just a rumour, I went to his address, and presented myself. Vickery-Smith is as stupid as he is cruel. He believed me completely taken in by the entire story of adultery. It was not hard at all to seduce him into smoking a pipe with me. I ensured the servants had all fled by insisting upon it before the opium. I doubt Vickery-Smith felt much of the flames. I am truly sorry that Mr Argall, a man who has done no wrong, had to suffer a more cruel fate.”

Holmes was perfectly silent, while he considered her story. The clock ticked loudly in the background, and reminded me that with every moment Miss Kaur’s chance at freedom grew slimmer. It seemed to do the same for her. She re-assessed the threat, and I watched with horror as she retrained the gun not on me, but Holmes. He looked down at her with an inscrutable expression. Even I, who have been blessed with brief glimpses into his soul, could not determine what he was thinking.

“The outcome of the punishment would be the same if this case were to come to trial, even if the method was unorthodox.” He said slowly “I cannot forgive Argall’s death, as I say. What lies between you and Captain Vickery-Smith however, is a matter for Providence.”

Miss Kaur nodded, slowly.

“Then let me go.”

“I cannot. Not while you possess documents which could bring down the peace in India.”

Sunita Kaur did not have to think for long.

“Then they may share the same fate as my brother in law.” She kicked the valise over to me, indicating that I should throw the contents into the fireplace. “I only wished to know what price Vickery-Smith had set upon my sister’s life. No doubt history will come to remember the Sepoy Revolt as India’s first war for independence, but for myself, I have seen enough bloodshed.”

“There’s only one more thing I would ask.” I said, as I bent to consign the contents of her suitcase to the fire. “I’m sure it was nothing to you, but there was another man hurt by your actions here. You say if you loved a man it would not matter to you if he were English or Indian. I beg of you to have the same consideration before you break a man’s heart.”  
Miss Kaur threw her head back, and laughed. It was the first open and joyful noise I had heard her make, and I felt a heavy weight lift as she finally lowered her pistol. In a trice, Holmes had crossed the room and had flicked it out of her hands.

“Fear not for poor James, doctor.” She said, still laughing. “I’ve no doubt he is having an awful time of it, but I’ve every intention of wiring him from Port Said. He will love Bengal. Seeing diamonds in the rough is far finer than viewing them within a case in a dingy museum. I will confess everything to him, and if he’ll still have me – well – then that is his choice.”

Holmes seemed far less than amused. While he did not lower the pistol at her, I could see he very much wished to.

“Get out. Get out of this country God damn you, before I change my mind.”

Sunita Kaur smiled beautifully, and executed a curtsey that was fit for the Queen, before rushing from the room in a rustle of tweed. I glanced up at the clock. If she ran, I imagined she would very well make the boat.

I got up from the fireplace, and looked to Holmes. The man was veritably shaking. I had begun to step towards him, when he grabbed me roughly by the lapels, and kissed me fiercely on the lips. He broke away again just as quickly.

“Not that I’m complaining… but what on earth was that for?”

“If I ever, ever have to see you on the wrong side of a gun again, dear one,” he said, voice thick with emotion “I’m not sure I can be responsible for the consequences.”  
“Easy… easy.” What could I say to him, but that in our line of work, it was a distinct possibility? I reached up, and kissed him again, softly, sweetly. I felt my heart unfurling like a rose when he did not stiffen or pull away, but instead put a hand to the small of my back.

“Your nerves are frayed.” I said “I prescribe a strict course of rest and recuperation.”

“Home, then.” He replied. And as I held him and looked into his eyes, I knew that despite all that came between us before and since, in that moment in time, home was nowhere else.

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to interfaceleader and haldane for the beta reads. Any mistakes are mine and not theirs. Also thanks to my own personal surgeon for medical details, and tripleransom for the perfect prompt. <3 Please forgive the Deus ex Mycroftia. 
> 
> Apologies must go to the British Museum, for inventing my own Gem and Ornament Room, with all the necessary windows, etc. It’s what ACD would have wanted. ;-) Also, apologies to Indian readers… I am White British and have no idea what I’m talking about. Please forgive the colonialism.  
> Chronology: http://blog.smartmemes.com/2010/03/sherlock-holmes-a-complete-chronology/. I placed this story in December of 1895, hence no ref to 3GAR, despite all the wrong-side-of-a-gun whatsit.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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